Connections of the Unknown
by TheChemicalAuthor
Summary: This is a bunch of SuperWhoLock oneshots! All of them are related and sometimes are only SuperWho, WhoLock, or SuperLock! Prompts are taken into request. *The Angel: Part Two is up* "Noises. He heard noises. A crashing off to the side of him, like a door slamming open. Someone shouting his name, someone who was dead. 'Death doesn't feel too great,' he thought."
1. The Deduction of the Blue Box

***This is my first WhoLock fanfiction so if the characters are a bit OC I'm incredibly sorry. (Note this will become SuperWhoLock) Read Author's Note at the end!***

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Sherlock strode down the street briskly. Wind nipped at his nose and he tightened his scarf unconsciously. People walked by him in pairs, huddled closely together as they braved the chilly November air. Sherlock picked up little snippets of people's' lives as he glided by.

_*The girl in the green coat was cheating on her husband with her boss's wife._

_*The man with the tuft of red hair was about to propose to his girlfriend today._

_*The girl sitting on the park bench was waiting for her boyfriend to meet her, but was nervous because she was going to break up with him._

It was all so obvious. Sherlock was bored. There was no other way around it. No cases, no murders, no kidnapping, nothing. He had been shooting the wall with John's gun earlier, aiming at the sadistic smiley face he sprayed on it. But then John had came in and yelled at him. So he was out on the streets, waiting for the glorious call that would save him from his impending boredom.

It didn't necessarily have to be a call, if anything he'd prefer Lestrade to text him, but he was awfully formal and usually called which was undoubtedly annoying.

Sherlock supposed he could go into his mind palace and explore, he was always finding new things in his mind that he previously deleted. He just might have to make do with the trivial knowledge that he deleted. He shuddered at the thought.

He turned the corner fast and burrowed his hands in his pockets. His brow furrowed as he considered his options. He could go back to John and maybe he would entertain him. John always fascinated him. But then again he'd probably get yelled at for the bullet holes in his wall. No doubt that will be appalled. No, it was decided he was not going back to 221B; not yet at least. He sighed. "Kicked out of my own apartment," he thought with a wry grin.

He turned another corner and stopped short. Now here was a puzzle! "Finally!" he said aloud as he strode up to a blue box. He knew every street in all of London, his London. All of it was memorized in his mind palace. But this odd blue box, a 1950's Police Box to be exact, was not on this street. Not usually. Now here was a riddle. He studied the box intently looking for clues to its sudden appearance.

_*The wall was not darken around it so the box had arrived recently; if it was there for a while the wall behind (which was showing slightly) would be lighter than the rest of the wall. *Looking at the state of the box it has seen a lot. Grime covered the bottom of the box, as if it had landed it a swamp of sorts._

_* But how could it of landed somewhere? He could assume that it had been moved with a crane from its previous home, but no, that wasn't right. A wooden box that important? No this box was more than that._

_*It's handles were clean, showing it has been polished from it's many uses._

_*It had a light on inside, judging by the faint glow emanating from the windows of the box, the cracks in between the door and the side of the box._

But before he could discover further, the doors of the box opened; something he was not expecting.

Now it was a rare to catch Sherlock Holmes off guard. He was after all, the master of surprise. He often knew what was going to happen before it actually did. However, he didn't know that the doors of the telephone box would open. It wasn't probable.

He took a step back as two people came out of the box laughing. He glanced at them.

_*Two people, a man and a woman ._

_*Late twenties._

_*May of been kissing-small quarters for just friends. Something more?_

_*Not with the way he looks at her; but they way she looks at him? Definitely unrequited love._

_*Strange apparel- out of town visitors?- No, not with the sense of ease they had when the exited the box; they've been here many times before._

_*She's a teacher- he can tell by the way she holds herself and talks to him._

_*He acted young-immature for his age but if he looked just a bit closer Sherlock saw the worry lines etched faintly in his face._

The man, suddenly aware of Sherlock, shifted his gaze over to the detective. Sherlock tilted his head as he took in the man. His eyes! So old for someone so young. But was he really as young as Sherlock presumed? He originally thought the man was around 26, but now he'd say probably 40, just judging by his eyes alone. They had seen too much for someone so young.

The man straightened his bow tie and said with a large smile, unaware of Sherlock's analyzing, "Hello! I'm the Doctor and this is Clara. What's the date?" Sherlock shifted his gaze between the two. Clara smirked at Sherlock and said, bumping the Doctor lightly with her elbow, "Don't mind Chin Boy over here-"

"Hey!"

"He's had a little too much to drink last night. My birthday party-"

"What subject?" Sherlock asked abruptly, cutting Clara off. She trailed off and asked confused, "What?"

"What subject do you teach? I've narrowed it down to English or Art but I'm not entirely sure which one."

She stared at him baffled. "Um, English."

Sherlock nodded satisfied with the answer-he thought so- while Clara turned to the Doctor.

"How does he-"

"Posture," Sherlock cut in, clasping his hands together. "Your stance suggest you are a caregiver, but a mother? Much to young. Due to they way you handle your partner's immaturity-"

"Hey!"

"One would assume you've dealt with this nature on a regular basis. So naturally a teacher would the obvious answer. Now for the subjects- your clothing suggest a free-spirit- so English and Art come to mind."

The pair looked at Sherlock in utter shock. Sherlock continued to talk, rather pleased with his audience, for they were quite interesting.

"Now for you 'Doctor.' Giving out a title instead of a name- one would say you have something to hide. Possibly your age?" He turned to Clara. "He's much older than he presumes, I'd be careful with him."

He smirked and 'the Doctor' said confused, "Who are you?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you? Doctor who?"

Clara smiled and said, "You're clever, I like him!" She turned to the Doctor for the last part.

"Not many say that," Sherlock said.

"What do they say?" Said the Doctor curious.

"Piss off."

They laughed and Sherlock allowed a small smile to grace his lips. He put his hands in his pockets.

"You're like Sherlock Holmes or something," Clara told him. He smiled at them (it seemed as he knew something they didn't) and said, "Really-that's quite interesting. What have you heard about Mr. Holmes?"

"Brilliant man!" The Doctor raved, "He's extremely clever and absolutely astounding!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and thought ( with much amusement) of what John's face would look like when he told him of these people's praise. John. He would still be mad with him though. His phone dinged as he glanced down. Lestrade texted him. Finally a case!

He cut off the Doctor, who was still unknowingly praising him and said, "Thank you for the kind words I suppose, but I've got to go. Cases to solve, murderers to catch."

"What?" Clara said baffled with the sudden change in conversation. "Wait- what's your name?" The Doctor called out to him. He said with a quick raise of his brows, "Sherlock Holmes." And with a flip of his long jacket he was off, running back to John and Lestrade.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

**Hey everyone (: I know, I know, I should be writing my two other fan fictions but this one just came to me! This is going to be a bunch of mini (related) one-shots on Sherlock, Doctor Who, and Supernatural! Review and Favorite(:**

**~TheChemicalAuthor**


	2. This is NOT Vegas

**Hey everyone please review and favorite and I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this :) ****_ALSO VERY IMPORTANT: I NEED PROMPTS!_**** ANY PROMPTS WILL DO! It could be SuperWhoLock, SuperWho, SuperLock, or Wholock -TheChemicalAuthor**

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"Sammy! What are we doing here again?" Dean yelled out to his brother as he searched the his designated half of the warehouse. It was old, the roof caved in and water dripped down from it, hitting his head every few seconds. The air smelt musty and Dean shivered, but not from the cold. Even he had to admit it was creepy in here. The meager light bulbs flickered overhead and he looked up. His eyes narrowed and he looked back at his EMF Detector. It's high pitch whine filled the empty warehouse. The little arrow was out of control; there was definitely something supernatural here.

"Locals heard strange noises coming from here the about 2 months ago and people saw something flickering in the shadows. Then last month it happened again. It's been happening every day on the 11th," he heard from behind him, close to his ear. He spun around only to see Sam clutching his flashlight and looking up at him critically.

"Jesus Sammy! Don't sneak up on me like that!" Dean complained, lowering his gun. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Is this seriously the best case we've got?" Dean asked desperately. The case sounded like complete bullshit. It was probably a bunch of stupid teenagers playing some dumb prank. They had more important things on their hands. With only a year to live, Dean didn't want to waste it on some bogus case. But the EMF Detector didn't lie. Dean knew something was here, he just didn't know what. It was something powerful, no normal ghost would make the Detector go this crazy.

"A demon?" He thought dubiously. It was possible, they did let out more than 200 when the Devil's Gate opened. He wasn't too worried. He was going to die and get dragged to Hell anyways, did it really matter when? All the counted was that Sammy was still alive. As long as Sammy was okay, Dean was okay.

"Dean?" Sam said nervously from behind him. He spun around but Sam was no where to be seen.

"Sammy?" Dean called out, gripping his gun tighter. "I swear to god if something gets him again..." He thought darkly.

"Over here!" Sam called out, sounding shocked. "I think I found our ghost," he added, but his voice made him seem confused. But why would he be confused? Dean made his way towards his brother, pointing his gun out in front of him the whole time.

He saw his brother but didn't relax his clench in the gun. It wasn't until he made sure Sam was completely okay did he lower his weapon. Sam was staring at something in front of his with a look at wonder and confusion.

Dean turned to face the unknown object that Sam was looking at and his mouth slacked open.

"I'll be damned," he breathed out. And because he was Dean Winchester he added, "Oh wait, I already am!" He laughed at his own joke as Sam glared at him.

"Oh lighten up Sammy!" Dean said, pushing Sam's shoulder. He turned back to the thing in front of him.

It was simple, yet it made no sense. A blue, flickering box stood in front of the Winchesters ominously. Mist slightly shrouded it, giving the box an eerie effect. It looked dangerous, the dark blue paneling spatter with dark patches of...something. The top of it said "Police Box" and a light flickered on the top of it, highlighting the chips in the paint.

A ghost box? That was certainly new. Dean stepped forward as Sam got out his gun from the hostler. With the tip of his gun Dean nudged at the box with bated breath.

Suddenly, the box's doors (which both brothers didn't even know it had) flew open and confetti rained down on them, catching in their hair. Two people ran out of the box, a guy and a girl.

"CLARA OSWALD, WELCOME TO VEGAS!" The man yelled enthusiastically, waving his hands around. She squealed with excitement, only to have it taken away when she hear the clicks of the guns. Both Clara and the mysterious man (who was wearing some weird red hat that matched his bow tie perfectly) turned towards the two hunters. Sam and Dean aimed their guns at the pair and they paled considerably. Deans eyes looked the woman up and down appreciatively, noting her flouncy green dress and how short it was.

"What the hell?" Dean blurted out. Sam's grip tightening around the butt of his gun. Even he had to admit, the ghosts they were facing were extremely puzzling. They had no blood staining their incredibly fancy clothes (the man did mention Vegas, was that where they were going before they died?)

Normally ghost killed the hunters (or at least tried to) on sight. But these two ghost looked very nervous indeed.

The girl squeaked out in a harsh whisper, "Doctor lets get back into the TARDIS."

"Clara I could just sonic them and we'll all calm down and-"

"You promised me Vegas; not this-not again!" Her voice rose even higher on the last part, gesturing to the brothers with panic.

"Look, not to break up your little-chat- but we haven't got all night. I'm tired, you're dead, and honestly? I just want to kill you and be done with it. And then, I'm going to go get me some pie."

He aimed the gun at the girl's head and she yelped.

"Doctor!"

Fast as lightning, the strange British man whipped out a weird looked device and a whirling sound resonated throughout the warehouse.

His gun sparked and he dropped it to the floor. He picked it up quickly and trying firing it-no luck. Great, his gun was jammed. But his gun never jammed. What did that damn ghost do to his gun?! He looked up at the duo, giving his best "You're so fucking dead" look.

"I don't like guns," the man replied menacingly. He turned to the girl -Clara was it?- and said, his whole demeanor changing, "Right Clara, I promised you Vegas huh? Lets go before these _gentlemen_ get any other great ideas." And with that he pushed her inside the box and closed the door.

Then it disappeared with that strange noise accompanying it. Sam looked around in disbelief as Dean yelled out in frustration, "Son of a _BITCH_!"


	3. The Angel: Part One

**Hey everyone, sorry this one is a bit short. Part Two will be coming soon, I promise(: ****_PROMPTS ARE GREATLY_**** APPRECIATED! Have a great day guys :) Remember to review.**

**~TheChemicalAuthor**

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"I'm sorry I couldn't stop you in time," John said, looking down at the shiny black grave. "Sherlock Holmes" was etched on to it neatly, as fresh as the day it was carved.

John closed his eyes and rested his head upon the stone. He was sitting criss-crossed in front of Sherlock's grave, staining his newly washed scrubs.

He had stopped by the grave on his way to work, he had recently started at a local hospital and thought he'd pay his best friend a visit. It had been two months.

"You know, sometimes I'll think it'll get easier, but it doesn't. I saw someone who looked like you the other day and punched them in the face! Thought you were playing another joke on me." John chuckled but stopped abruptly. He took a deep breath.

"Why'd you jump Sherlock? I could of help you, I could of-" his words got choked off and his grip tightened on the cane next to him.

His limp was back and he was hardly surprised. It seemed like it was only fitting it was back. It left because of the consulting detective, now it was back because he was gone. Bloody gone!

John looked down at the grass stubbornly as he felt the hot tears trail silently down his face. He had to pull it together. He heard a rustle behind him but didn't bother looking over his shoulder. Everyone knew he was a wreck, it was probably Mycroft again, spying.

_John had caught the first little camera in 221B when he was making some tea. It had been a week since the fall and John had hardly sleep. Every time he'd close his eyes all he was was Sherlock's lifeless eyes staring back at him. That was something he could never unsee. So it was 2AM in the morning and John was slipping tea. He kept staring at Sherlock's chair, silently willing for Sherlock to appear in it. Maybe if he just tried hard enough, just kept picturing him slinking into his chair like a cat, like he usually did, Sherlock would appear. But he didn't and it broke John's heart. He had to move out of the flat. It was too expensive and with Sherlock gone, it was too painful to even look at his chair. He glanced away and looked at Sherlock's skull on the mantel. He could swear, it was looking at him. "That's how Sherlock will look soon," John groaned and put his head in his hands. But just as quick, he looked back up. There was definitely something in the skull. He got up and moved closer. A blinking red light stared, blinking back at him. With a growl he ripped the camera from the wall and said out loud, "Mycroft, stop bugging the bloody flat! There's no point anymore. Sherlock's gone." And then, surprising himself he said in a lifeless tone, "He's dead." He shut his eyes tight, pretending that the tears squeezing out from his firmly shut lids weren't there, that his best friend wasn't dead, that he wasn't alone with just the memories again._

_Over the next 2 months, John kept finding the video cameras everywhere, and was scandalized to find one in the mirror in the bathroom. He was tired of Mycroft spying on him._

So when he heard the rustling of leaves behind him, he thought nothing of it. The noise kept getting closer and closer, the crackle of leaves here, a strange chuckling there. John was furious.

"Oh so yer laughing at me now!" He exclaimed angry, spinning around to face the spy. But strangely no-one was there. He looked around the graves suspiciously, but just the usual headstones, nothing special. His eyes scanned over them once more, feeling as if something was off. Wait, was that angel headstone looking at him?

John could of sworn that it had its head in its hands before; and it definitely didn't have its hand out towards John before. It was only 10 feet away, the grass surrounding it crushed. Was it...moving? Preposterous! John, feeling very foolish, turned back to Sherlock's headstone. He heard the noise again, the ruffling sound. His head jutted quickly back to the angel. He made a noise in the back of his throat.

The angel's face was twisted in a grotesque snarl, it's hands clawing towards him. It was now 8 feet away! John backed up slowly, terrified. He blinked- it was quick- but one second was all it took and the angel was closer. He backed up farther, but every time he blinked or looked away, it keep getting closer! He was starting to panic. It was Monday morning, 7:00 o'clock to be exact, no-one was in the graveyard!

"Help, help, help," he muttered, as it kept getting closer and closer. The, John tripped. He fell over a broken headstone and sprawled across the ground. His face squished against the ground and his heart plummeted. He was going to die.


	4. The Angel: Part Two

**Author Note: Hi everyone, sorry for not posting in a while, life gets in the way as you all know! Review, Favorite and Comment as usual. SEND ME PROMPTS! **

**~TheChemicalAuthor**

**btw this features SOULESS Sam, not the regular one. **

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John looked up and waited for it all to be over. He was scared. He was confused. And most importantly, he was alone; no-one could save him now. The angel was about 3 feet away from him-grinning with a manic expression. All he had to do was blink and it was over for him. John knew how fast they moved. He would be dead. It was a strange thought indeed. All his years in Afghanistan, under the achingly bright sun in the mid-afternoon; hands covered in the blood of the wounded and finally covered in his own. He thought he would die when he got shot. The pain he felt when the bullet entered his shoulder was indescribable. His men surrounded him as he writhed on the ground in agony, his flesh gory and red. They didn't know what to do, he was the doctor not them. He hadn't had any time to contemplate his life nor did it flash before his eyes- if anything all he saw was red. But all he saw now was the sadistic face of the stone angel-it smiled with sharp teeth and beady eyes.

He didn't even know how this was all possible. A stone angel was about to_ murder_ him; and he was going to die an idiot- not even knowing how his death even occurred. Of course according to Sherlock, everyone was an idiot. Thinking of Sherlock brought tears to John's eyes. Or they would have if his eyes weren't so dry. They felt like they've been rubbed with sandpaper, gritty and sore.

His eyes burned horribly and he made up his mind. He needed to blink and this was ridiculous. He was giving up. John took a shaky breath and his heart pounded. It was as if it had to make up for all the time it would loose when he was dead. He felt his body vibrate with the thud of fast-beating heart. He was aware of everything suddenly. Funny thing is, when he almost died last time he wasn't aware of anything at all except the agony of the bullet. But now he noticed everything.

He noticed that he had a gash on his forehead from when he fell earlier. He felt the hot blood slide down his weathered face. He was aware of the aching in his joints, he hadn't ran like that since Sherlock was alive, he was getting rusty. He was aware of the soft, jaded grass, drying out beneath his body. It still managed to stain his mint green scrubs though. The light around him was pleasant and the air was cool, it made his skin prickle. He had seconds, his eyes were focusing in and out lazily, he had them open at least a minute and felt the dust particles on them. Lastly, he a said a silent goodbye to all his friends. He'd miss all the friends he made with Sherlock. Sure, they mocked Sherlock, but who hadn't at one point. He felt a pang of regret at the state he'd leave them.

_One friend dead, another to go_, he thought with a crazed laugh.

"See you soon Sherlock," he whispered hoarsely, his throat felt like it was closing. It probably was from fear. He closed his eyes. They sang with relief. But his heart stuttered in his chest painfully, reminding him_ he was still alive._ He wanted to live. If he wasn't going to fight to live, what kind of soldier was he? He wanted to give up and see his best friend again, but would Sherlock really want to know that he gave up his final chance of living to see his face again? A stone cold hand gripped his wrist, jarring him out of his thoughts.

John's grey eyes flew open and he let out a strangled gasp. The angel had its-its_ hand_ clutching John's wrist like a lifeline. His breath quickened. He couldn't get in enough air, he sucked it in and pushed it out of his chest, but it did no good, he couldn't breath properly. He was hyperventilating, he realised.

He tried to take deep breaths, but he just resulted in him gasping in air and taking quicker and quicker breaths.

A strange noise filled the air and John's head got hazier and hazier. He was passing out surely and the noises were purely a figment of his imagination.

VWOOMP! VWOOMP!

John's vision clouded over the edges as the noise got louder and louder. Blood trickled down his chin and he realised he probably needed stitches. His head pounded and DAMMIT he couldn't stop hyperventilating! His body shook and his eyes were getting weary again.

Something was materializing out of the corner of his eye. If only he could turn his gaze, but the angel would surely kill him. He was painfully aware of the tight grasp it had on his wrist and wanted to cry out from its pain. As the object solidified, the noises slowly dimmed until it completely stopped. A blue box was nearly 10 feet away from him, crushing two headstones.

Now everything was hazy, his eyes were clouded over with a milky white film. His pain was starting to fade away and the milky white was turning into a dusty grade and then into a fading black._ Lack of oxygen,_ he thought dimly.

Noises. He heard noises. A crashing off to the side of him, like a door slamming open. Someone shouting his name, someone who was dead.

_Death doesn't feel too great,_ he thought.

"Keep your eye on weeping angel!" another voice shouted gruffly. An American, John registered somewhere in his mind.

"John!" the first voice screamed again, it's baritone smoothness sounding as broken as the day he killed himself.

"Sher-lock?" John croaked out between gasps. His head swam. A current in his mind was pulling him under and no matter how fast he breathed, he couldn't get enough air in his aching lungs. His eyes were drooping shut and he forced them open.

And right there, next to the horrid weeping angel was his glorious best friend. Sherlock Holmes. His unruly black hair wavered in the breeze and he look anxiously down at John's face. Panicked. The last time John saw Sherlock with that expression on his face was when he had a bomb strapped to him. This might as well be another bomb. Sherlock's piercing blue gaze suddenly shift onto the angel and he said, his voice trembling, "John, you can close your eyes for now."

John realised how red his eyes must of been and gratefully he closed them, still tense. He tried to control his breathing and as he did, he heard Sherlock conversing with the other men around him.

"Doctor, there must be something else that we can do!" Sherlock snapped at someone.

"Sherlock we have to break his wrist," a different voice replied, not the american one. He sounded young enough, but the heaviness with what he said made him sound old. _A soldier,_ John thought,_ like me_.

Wait, break his _wrist_? John's eyes snapped open, his heart stuttering. His breathing was under control now and adrenaline coursed through his veins with the mention of violence. A man with a bowtie looked down at him sympathetically as his eyes widened.

"What-let's not be crazy here!" he said indignantly. John glanced around. Sherlock and stood next to the man with the bowtie and a third man- the american- stared at the stone angel coldly. His long, brown hair quivered in the breeze, his face adorned a calculating expression, like he was considering something.

John's gaze turned from incredulous to panicked as the american man said, moving closer to John, "I'll do it."

"**Sherlock!**" John strangled out as the strange man moved closer and closer.

"Is this really necessary?" Sherlock said to "the Doctor".

Grim determination settled on his face as he replied, "It's the only way out. River did it before."

Sherlock nodded resigned and John looked at him befuzzled. This whole mess was confusing. Sherlock was alive, a blue box appeared out of no-where and a stone angel was trying to kill him.

John gave the Doctor a pleading look and exclaimed, "Please, don't break my wrist, I'm sure there's another way-" Before John could finish his sentence his wrist was on fire.

He screamed bloody hell as the American snapped his wrist like a twig. He must of blacked out because one moment he was sitting up, his wrist caught by the angel and the next he was gasping on the ground, cradling a blackened wrist.

He took shaky breaths and some of the blood from his forehead caught in his mouth, leaving a metallically taste in his mouth. Sherlock ran towards him and tried to help him up as John struggled to stand.

"**No!**" John snarled at Sherlock, bringing him up short. John stood shakily to his feet and pointed at him. "You're dead. You** died**. I saw you break your neck as you fucking** jumped!**" he cried out.

"He's not dead you're just easily tricked," the American man said, his voice devoid of emotion. John whirled around at the man in fury. His fist went flying John punched the man square in the jaw. Hard. The man stumbled back and John screamed at him, "I know that now, you cock! That's for breaking my bloody wrist!"

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**To be continued...**


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